


Kinktober Shorts

by CozyCryptidCorner



Category: Original Work, exophilia - Fandom
Genre: Consensual Somnophilia, Cunnilingus, Dark Elf, Dry Humping, Exophilia, F/M, Femdom, Human/Monster Romance, Kelpie - Freeform, Male Harpy - Freeform, Multi, Naga, Oral Sex, Orgasm Denial, Outdoor Sex, Pegging, Praise Kink, Semi-Public Sex, Size Difference, Teasing, biting kink, doting, fae, vampire
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-04
Updated: 2020-11-13
Packaged: 2020-11-23 05:03:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 13,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20886563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CozyCryptidCorner/pseuds/CozyCryptidCorner
Summary: Hey guys, since all my kinktober works are so damn short, I've decided to lump them all together into a single work.***If you are reading this on any third party apps (such as unofficialao3), or on any platform besides AO3, Tumblr, and Wattpad, then you are reading stolen work. I do not give consent for my stories to be published or pulled elsewhere.***





	1. Vampire/Reader Biting Kink

#

“You’re so beautiful,” he whispers, petting your hair, stroking your cheek, placing his lips against the place where your jawline and neck meet. There- _there _his fangs graze against your skin, sending delicious shivers down your spine. Oh, god, the way his hips move against yours, the way he pierces your body, you feel the coil in your stomach wind tighter and tighter.

“Pl-please,” you whimper, eyes so hazy you can barely see those ruby-red eyes that stare unblinkingly, at your every movement. His weight presses you up into the mattress, an exquisite detail, one that makes you feel shockingly secure though being defiled so thoroughly.

“Please what?” He asks, damn him, that sweet voice dripping with innocence as if he is not drilling inside of you at the very moment.

You’re shaking now, oh god, but you manage to croak out, “bite me, please.”

He thrusts once more, looking over your naked body like the predator he is. “You want me to-” he cocks his head, and you swear that you almost believe that he is truly puzzled by your request, “what?”

The way he can reduce you to barely more than a cohesive, babbling mess is almost embarrassing, but there are no other witnesses than him to your shame. “Bite me,” you hiss through your gritted teeth, trying not to chew your lower lip into more of a bloody mess than it already is, “bite me, please, wherever, however you want.”

He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, gently kissing each of your fluttering eyelids, then drags his tongue from your earlobe to your clavicle. “Would you like me to bite you here, maybe?”

“Yes, baby, yes, please!”

He hums in contemplation, the bastard, clawed fingers tracing circles on your thigh. After a moment, he leans his head down, sucking at the flesh near your breast. “Perhaps…. Here?”

You keen, whimpering, and offer nothing more than a breathless nod.

“Oh, here is where you want it?” He asks, as though you hadn’t been begging him for the past few minutes. “I suppose I can humor you then, love.”

You barely have any time to react before he goes in, fangs sliding through your skin, stopping right over your heart. Those ruby eyes gaze at you, lusting for both your body and blood, thrusting becoming more and more erratic as he feeds. It doesn’t hurt, not at all, the venom practically fries any nerves in the area, offering nothing more than a sweet, warm sensation that spreads out from the bite and through your body. The feeling hits your stomach, and something inside of you tightens suddenly, and then releases.

You press yourself up against him, whining, fingers grasping for the sheets so that you might have something to ride the orgasm out on. _Please, please, please, please,_ you think you might be whimpering, or maybe not, you’ve lost touch on reality.

He’s licking the blood from your chest, little, tiny, kitten licks, just barely keeping the true beast inside at bay, rubbing his fingers up against your clit so that the aftershocks leave you shaking even more violently. “My love,” he whispers, kissing the point of your chin, his mouth covered in your blood, “you are an exquisite creature.”


	2. Fae/Reader Consensual Somnophilia

There was a deal, in the case that something like this would happen. There are always people after him, to poison him, to love him, to make themselves something more in his presence… or his absence. And so in the dark, under the dead of night, knowing full well of a plot to make sure that he’s on the chopping block with a very particular form of poison, he brought out the contract.

The fae, always about their contracts. Even with your past, he is almost overwhelmingly proper with every interaction, and this approach to the contract is not any different. Well, now that you think about it, _especially _because of your past, he must want to make sure that you aren’t going to bounce if things get ugly. That’s fair, you suppose, even though it stings whenever you think about his mistrust. Ugly, but fair.

The trees are in a permanent state of reds, oranges, and yellows, not a lick of green to be seen. Half of the leaves are gone, though in a far more artistic manner than just random happenstance, as the fae would never allow their realm to be anything but blindingly perfect to the human eye. You don’t bring a torch, though, so you only depend on the cold moonlight to light your path as you walk silently down the hill, staying on the cobblestone path, so you don’t leave any more footprints than you really have to.

You have the exact position where his glass coffin would be, and so you make a sudden turn into the forest, plunging yourself into the half-dead trees, your stomach bubbling with anxiety. It doesn’t take you too long to find it, set on top of an ancient altar, a soft, pulsing blue light emanating from the crystalline glass. His fiery red hair frames his face, those delicate, beautiful eyelashes not even slightly fluttering as you pry the lid to the coffin off, sliding it as silently as you can manage to the side.

Even though you wished there was some way to break the sides of the coffin off, it doesn’t exactly hurt as you climb on top of him, your legs pressing up against the glass as you try settling yourself on his waist. God, you would never claim to be entirely comfortable with this, but after his little visit barely two days before, the two of you know that this is the only way to break the spell he has been cursed under. It’s the only way to wake him up.

So you bend over, pressing your mouth against his, those soft lips as cold as death. He might not be able to kiss back, but all other body functions will be happening as though his flesh is merely on autopilot. You grind, gently at first, trying to at least enjoy yourself if nothing else, and kissed the side of his mouth, then his chin. God, you missed his scent when you were gone. The smell of crisp rain pouring into the earth, of freshly fallen leaves that have not yet turned to rot, and the vines of pumpkins that stretch out into the cold fields. It hurts, even now, to close your eyes and remember how he held you so many moons ago when you would bury your nose into the crook of his neck and hope his scent lingered long after the nights you spent with him.

His pants tent, the arousal working through him despite his spirit not being present. With a nervous gulp of breath, you go for the belt, undoing the golden buckle, doing your best to pull the fabric past his waist. With the stiff member free, you stare, briefly, running your fingers up the underlength in a sort of trance. Maybe… Maybe you’re allowed to enjoy this, you wonder, hitching your skirt, slipping your underwear to the side. For old time’s sake.

Oh, praise be to the old gods, he fills you up just as much as you remember, sliding up your walls and causing you to double over, taking a moment to focus on your breathing. You manage one thrust, bringing your body up, then down, your lungs hitching as your brain registers pleasure. This has to be a noiseless affair, but you can barely keep yourself from letting out a little whimper as you move against him, riding his body like a lifeless toy.

Letting out a sharp gasp, you find yourself bracing your hands against his chest, closing your eyes, pretending that the only reason he isn’t holding you is that you handcuffed him to the imaginary bed, like you have so many times before. Then you stop, because you have to remember that it’s not _your _orgasm that breaks the spell. It’s-

His body spasms, then releases, his cum filling your core, the heat almost sending you over the edge as well. You don’t allow yourself the pleasure of finishing, though, because judging by the way his eyes flicker with movement, the contract is now over. Before you have a chance to slink off back through the woods, his hands close around your arms, and he sits up, mouth suddenly very, very close to yours. Those amber eyes open, still hazy with sleep and lust, his lips pouting slightly as he leans just a tad bit closer to kiss you on the side of your neck.

“Thank you,” he says, “I knew I could count on you to save me.”

“Uh-huh,” you say, trying to wriggle free without making it evident that you’re trying to escape, “just paying my respect to the crown, sir.”

“Just your respect?” He asks softly, laying his head against your shoulder. His eyelashes brush against your skin, sending little tiny pinpricks of arousal through your nerves. “That’s all? Nothing else?”

You relax only slightly. “No, there were other reasons.”

“I thought so.” He kisses the place where your neck and shoulders meet, his lips still cold like death. “Stay.”

“Stay?” You try not to sound aghast. “You almost died here.”

“Yet here I lie, with you atop me. I dare say we can spend the night with no one to miss us… like old times.”

It’s an offer that stretches beyond the night, you hear it in his voice. Slowly, you loosen your grip on the edge of the coffin, your knuckles pale and red from holding on so tightly, and gently place your hands on either side of his shoulders.

It’s not… forgiveness, per se, but it’s a start.

“Then I shall.” 


	3. Naga King, Praise Kink/Size Difference

Throwing up a facade of calmness, you strip off your clothes while your heart beats up into your throat like a wild animal, begging, crying, threatening to escape. To say that you are nervous would be a gross understatement, your blood roars in your ears, the urge to fight whoever, whatever, overtaking your body with such ferocity that you might literally start vibrating. Still, your shaking hands reach up to your neckline, gently tugging on the buttons until you manage to undo a single one, the overwhelming feeling of freedom running through your spine as you take in a deep, cooling breath of night air.

“Let me help you.” His voice is soft, like the gentle caress of breeze on a hot summer night. Those fingers, large, strong, but deft, begin to open the front of your wedding dress, pushing the fabric past your shoulders once possible.

You try not to look at him, because if you do, you’re afraid that you’d stare. This- the wedding, the banquet, and now… is the first time you’ve ever seen him, despite the engagement well-known to everyone on this side of the hemisphere. Still, you let him take the responsibility of undressing you, holding limp and stiff as a rag doll, every beaded layer of fabric coming off one by one until you stand, fully naked, in front of his scrutiny. On instinct, you cover your chest, looking straight ahead at the heavily cushioned bed that you’re expected to spend the night in, mouth pressed in a firm, thin line.

“Are you so disgusted with your husband’s appearance that you can’t even look at him?” The statement is almost bitter, but not malicious. Maybe… disappointed? “This wedding was your idea, I’ve been told.”

You look at him. The action is so simple, yet so difficult for you to manage, shame at your body and nakedness screaming inside your head as you do so. Somehow making eye contact with those soft honey-golden eyes makes you even more conscious of being bare, your shoulders tensing up as you try, successfully, not to look away. “I-” you swallow dryly, trying to find your voice, “no, it’s not that, sire.”

“Don’t,” he says, tone sharp enough to cause you to flinch. “Ah- my apologies, that came off too harshly. There is no need for you to call me ‘sire,’ darling, I’m your husband in the bedchambers, not your king.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” his voice softens considerably, “I can see that it’s not quite me that startles you, is it?”

You offer the slightest shake of your head, trying to keep your gaze from flickering down to where his torso fades out into a snake’s tail, his black iridescent scales completely uncovered. It appears he stripped out of his ceremonial clothing before you, even his baubles and jewelry discarded to the side as though they are nothing more than the scraps of food.

He touches your shoulder, his claws long and sharp, ghosting a trail down the side of your arm and leaving a path of goosebumps in their wake. “This is your first time, hm? No need to fret, darling, I can be as gentle as you need me to be.”

Those scaled fingers brush against yours, causing you to slowly uncover yourself from his view, and he leads you up to the bed. The mattress is impossibly plush against your back, the covers cool against your trembling fingers as you try to claw for some grip. His shimmering white hair curtains around you as he leans over your body, mouth puckered as he places a kiss on your forehead. His long, scaled body covers yours, but you don’t feel trapped. Something inside you says that the king would simply move should you so much as _breathe_ in a way that isn’t comfortable, so you lay back, take a deep intake of air, and try to relax.

“I don’t have to make this long,” he says, running a fingertip down your thigh, “we can be in and out in only a few minutes, but I doubt you’d enjoy that.”

“Or?” You ask, voice raspy with wine.

“Or,” he kisses you again, right on your collarbone, “I can keep you up all night, but I don’t think you would mind that in the slightest. Not with everything I can do with your sweet little body.”

A shiver runs down your spine, though not from fear. From something else.

“Your choice,” your king says, clearly not in a rush.

“What- what kind of things can you do?” You ask quietly, trying not to feel embarrassed at your own naivete.

“Oh, a little bit of this, a tiny pinch of that.” His fingers make their way down to where your legs split off, finding the folds between them. “There are words that describe them, but they are lewd and grotesque, and I’m sure your ladyship doesn’t wish to sully your ears with such language.”

“Try me,” you say, feeling a bit brave.

“Cunnilingus,” he offers, slithering down the length of your torso and further yet until most of him rests on the floor. “The act of oral pleasure on-"

“I get it,” you say, face flushed and hot. “You- you’re not- are you-”

“Yes, I am.” He says it like… like he’s not about to do it, as if he’s merely telling you that he’s sending servants down to get a cup of freshly brewed coffee, or maybe leaving to change his clothes.

And certainly _not_ like he would immediately lean forward, giving your flower a quick lick. Your breath hitches, but you somehow manage not to cry out, your focus hyper fixated on every twitch of his muscle, every movement of his mouth. His eyes only flicker up briefly to gauge that reaction, before licking you again, this time taking a bit more of a taste. Then he kisses you, pressing his mouth right up to the bud between your folds, sending a shock of pleasure through your nerves.

“There we go,” he says approvingly, “you liked that, didn’t you?”

You let out a little whimper of agreement, and then he’s back to licking without a shred of mercy. His tongue runs along your lips with a finesse you didn’t know could exist, lapping alongside the shape of your folds before suddenly changing direction. The focus of his movements turns to your bud, the quick, circular pattern sending sparks through your bones and out through your eyes. Your fingers scratch at the cover of the blankets, eyes closing to try and focus on stifling your cries, the humiliation of sounding your own pleasure keeping you from focusing on him the way you should be.

But he will not be ignored, especially not during sex, and so he slides back up over your body, pressing his chest up against yours. He must feel the way your hardened nipples dig into his skin, just as you feel something long and hard sprouting from a certain slit on your stomach. He kisses your eyelids, his hair tickling your neck and face, then your nose, your mouth, your chin, and up your jawline. “You’re doing so good,” he croons, fingers doing what his tongue cannot, “so wet, so beautiful. Oh, sweet girl, I truly believe you will be the death of me.”

Your brain washes over with something more than shame, something warm and bright. You risk opening one of your eyes to see him, flushed, hair askew, eyes filled with a delicious amount of lust. Something in your chest snaps, and a wash of pleasure runs through your veins, collecting into a pool within your core, coiling tighter and tighter.

“Would you like for me to enter you? I’m practically salivating, darling, just thinking about being able to thrust into your tight, warm body.”

Trying to keep your breath from hitching anymore than it has, you nod, placing one of your legs around his hips to make it easier for him to enter you. And oh- he does. He’s large, and that causes some discomfort at first, but he doesn’t try to do anything more than kiss your fingers and offer you reassurances as your body adjusts to his size.

“Are you ready, darling?” He asks, bracing himself against the bed. You can see it, the way he’s already pulsing with pleasure, the way his chest trembles with every intake of breath, and the way his eyes can’t seem to focus on any single part of your body. He’s losing himself in you.

“Yes, I trust you.”

A sigh escapes his mouth as he thrusts, once, taking a brief second to briefly recover. He works slowly, at first, careful not to give more than you can take, and then, when you show no signs of pain or discomfort, he begins to pick up his pace. Something inside of you matches what he offers, your core tightening up into something impossibly small, before springing free, hard, wild, the sensation of falling and crashing shaking your entire body.

You gasp, and cry, hands flying up to his shoulders, and you want to claw at his flesh, bite at his neck, pull at his hair, but you do none of those things. Only tremble with orgasm as he rides you out, his hand stroking your cheek, his voice whispering praises to how good you feel, how beautiful you are.

“There we go,” he says as your body calms down somewhat. “Was that terrible?”

“No,” you whisper, suddenly wishing you had a blanket to cover yourself with.

“So, you would be open for a second round, love?”

Your face flushes again, but you nod.

He smiles, fangs glimmering in the moonlight as his fingers find their mark once more. “Excellent.”


	4. Dark Elf/Orgasm Denial

It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, and yet your forehead is slick with sweat, your mouth trembling with the effort to not make a single sound. The elf between your legs shows no signs of stopping, his black tongue licking relentlessly against your clit, tracing circles up and down, and side to side until your vision threatens to blackout. Your back arches, despite your best attempts not to show how well he’s pleasuring your body, your nails scraping against the stone of the altar you lay against. 

He can sense it, or maybe he is just that capable of reading every twitch, gesture, and gasp you make to know when to pull back, mouth glistening with your arousal. The spark that had been building up within your core staves off, slowly sputtering out as he instead climbs on top of you, straddling your waist as though the roles of sex are somehow reversed. His pale gray hair is askew from the intricate braids he started out with, mouth swollen from deep, hungry kisses, and his midnight skin already riddled with your bitemarks. 

“This can end now,” he says, voice a cold baritone. “All you have to say is  _ yes.” _

You swallow thickly, taking in a deep, shaking breath, barely able to keep your stare on the full moon overhead, and not his glistening, beautiful body. “You  _ wish _ .”

His wine-colored eyes look down at you, in shock, as though you hadn’t refused him countless times before. A bit of pity runs through you as you wonder if he really thought you would agree to leave your entire life behind  _ this time. _ The moonlight makes his face seem even more stern as he hardens, lifting his leg up over your hips to slide off the altar. “I see. Are we done here, then?”

“No.” What can you say, you’re a glutton for punishment. 

At your response, he pauses, licking his lips as if committing your taste to memory. Then, the bitterness in his eyes is gone, his shoulders no longer hunched as if expecting a fight, his mouth in a languid, ghost of a smile. He approaches the altar again, bracing his arms on either side of your legs on the cool stone, his expression becoming more and more determined as the seconds tick by. Out of nowhere, it seems, he leans up suddenly, giving you a quick peck on the lips.

“Get on your hands and knees.” 

You listen to the order, switching positions, your knees aching at the sudden hardness you force them on. The altar isn’t all the high, but it still feels odd to be able to see so much of the surrounding forest while in a posture of subjugation. A breeze rustles through the trees, and though it doesn’t manage to chill your heated muscles, it still manages to send a shiver down your spine. 

He doesn’t make you wait, you both know that you wouldn’t have allowed it, anyways, pressing his mouth up to your quivering slit once more. This time, though, his tongue delves deeper, stretching past what a regular human could manage, pressing up against your inner walls with such expertise that you have to cover your mouth before you cry out. A gush of arousal runs through your core, and before you can even process what he could be planning, he licks it up like a starving dog. Lapping at your juices like he might  _ die _ if he doesn’t, gripping your hips almost too tightly to steady your trembling legs. 

The heat is back, the warm tightness in your stomach collapsing even further. Your lungs gasp for air, but it doesn’t relieve anything that needs to be set free. The altar digs into your knees as you rock against him, allowing yourself the pleasure of letting go, biting down on your hand as though that might do something to help ease the pressure relentlessly building inside you. You allow yourself to whine, hoping that he might show mercy if you seem to enjoy using him, one of the many tactics you have already tried, yet keep doing in anticipation of him being the first to crack. 

His thumb finds your clit, tongue still busy between your folds, and you suddenly feel a bout of panic. At- at this rate, you might be the first to cave. To give in. Because the way he keeps doing  _ that, _ the thing with his tongue, and the thing with his fingers, you might, just on the barest hint of a whim, beg him like a whore to let you finish. Oh, oh  _ god, _ you are so close to relief that you might actually start crying-

He gives you one last kiss, suckling against the puckered skin and releasing it with a loud  _ pop, _ letting the cold air of the night seep into your body in some kind of cruel joke. You move, sitting back down, giving your knees a well-deserved break from the plight they have been through, and watch him like a hawk as he lays his head atop your thigh. His hot breath still brushes against your clit, sending sharp bursts of frustration through your body, and he looks up at you with the knowledge of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing with every minute gesture. 

“Come,” he says, “come through the forest, dance with me beyond the trees. Allow me to aid in your descent, and you would want for nothing. I will see to your every need, nothing would escape my notice, and you will finally know pleasures that won’t ever be felt on this earth.”

You pet his hair, running your fingers through a single strand that escaped the clutches of his braid, listening to every sweet vow that falls from that gorgeous mouth.  _ Maybe one day,  _ you think,  _ I will be weak enough to accept. I will take his hands and allow him to lead me to whatever lies beyond the forest. _

But today is not that day. 

“No,” you say, gentle but firm. “I will not.”


	5. Male Harpy/Doting

His kisses are soft and chaste, slow and leisurely, as though the two of you have all the time in the world. Clawed fingers make their way from your waist to your breasts, stroking at your nipples with the pad of his thumb, sending soft little shivers through your nerves and down to your core. Wings dusted with gold bend around your body, the feathers on his arms ghosting over your bare skin as he shifts positions, rolling over to press his chest against yours instead of laying at your side. Raven black hair tickles your face as he leans forward, pressing his mouth on your jugular, a harsh row of sharpened teeth teasing the edge of your skin.

“Does this please you?” He asks, bracing his hands on either side of your head. “You did say to ask, instead of assuming. Are you pleased?”

It takes a moment for your brain to process what your ears hear, eyes glazing over with concentration. He is… trying, and you think that satisfies you even more than the kissing.

“Yes,” you breath, giving him a nod of encouragement.

He smiles, those startling, lapis-blue eyes burning with delight, and bends over to press his soft lips onto yours. His tongue is long and hot, gently teasing your mouth until you deepen the kiss, letting him explore you to his satisfaction. The ends of his wings vibrate with excitement when you wrap your legs around his waist, pushing up against a developing erection. The grinding sends you into your own little tizzy, brain fritzing out on the most action you’ve seen in a long while, instinct hissing at you to take things even further than you already have.

The silken sheets of the bed do nothing to cool the impossible heat that builds between your thighs, even though you do your best to remain calm and collected in the face of pleasure. This… this isn’t how it was supposed to go, but now that you’re in the thick of things, you decide to just close your eyes and roll with it. After all, how can something that feels so good turn out to be horrible? Only a brief second of pondering brings you to the decision to reach up, brushing your fingers against his pale face. His eyes widen slightly as you drag your thumb down the side of his jawline, brushing it against his already swollen lips.

“Tell me how to touch you,” he says, his voice breathy and desperate, “I want to know how to make you tremble and cry for me, I need to have you screaming my name as I give you release. Please,” he shakes his head, taking your hand in his and kissing your fingers with every word, “please, please, let me give you this bliss.”

You take control of his hand, fingers threaded through his, and guide him down to where your legs part, your slit already weeping with arousal. “Here, touch me here- not hard, gently.”

He watches you bring his fingers to where your clit it, face stern with the most concentration you’ve seen overtake him. One hand settles on your thigh while the other begins to experiment, stroking your folds in various directions until he manages to decide on a good rhythm, careful not to let his claws do anything more than  _ almost _ graze your skin. After a moment, he covers his index finger with your slick, then slides back up to where your clit is, watching your reaction as he begins to massage it. You don’t try to hide anything, swallowing thickly as the friction starts to build inside your core, and he seems to almost vicariously absorb the pleasure he gives you.

“Is this good?” He asks, eyes wild with the need to please.

“Yes,” you breathe, giving a hasty nod, “yes, it’s good.”

He lets out a little moan, almost like a whine, and you can see that he is barely holding his wildness together in some kind of facade of civility. His eyes are hooded, dark with lust, and you think just a few more minutes of teasing, he might actually start drooling. So you offer him an olive branch, a shred of mercy, taking his jaw between your fingers and bringing him up just enough for a kiss. It deepens quickly, his body keen to press up against yours, his arms wrapping around your neck in a desperate embrace.

“You know,” you say, breaking the kiss only long enough to speak, “you don’t just have to use your fingers.”

Understanding sparks in his eyes, and then, determination. Down he goes, placing your legs on his shoulders, breath hot against your seeping wetness. First, his tongue offers the quickest little licks, eyes flickering up to gauge your reaction as you wrap your fingers in the thickness of his hair. Then he does it again, adding more pressure to the action, his lips curving upwards in a smile as you instinctively buck your hips towards his mouth. At first, his actions are just as leisurely as his kisses, without a single sense of urgency, but after circling your clit, it feels more like he has been overtaken by some sort of frenzy.

He laps at your red, swollen skin, and you cry out, tears threatening to enter your eyes from ecstasy. Instead of leaving your body to its own devices, he has you in a hold, arms at your waist to keep your movements under his mouth’s control, and oh, god, control is what he has. His kisses are rough but necessary for your survival. Then he suddenly takes your clit between his lips and  _ sucks, _ fucking sucks, and you are in the sudden danger of orgasming so terribly sooner than you’d like.

Before you even have the chance to open your mouth, it comes, like a sudden release, in the harsh, beautiful way that it always does. Your back arches as you cry out, fingers pulling perhaps a little too roughly at his hair, but by the way his eyes flash with excitement, he clearly doesn’t mind the severity. In fact, he doesn’t stop licking, doesn’t bring his mouth away from the gushing wave of cum that escapes your core. He just… keeps going, lets you ride out your orgasm on his face, watching with a careful perception as each wave of pleasure ripples through your body.

Only when you are nothing more than a shivering mass of flesh does he untangle himself from your legs, mouth in a crazed, animalistic smile. He places a gentle hand on where your womb sits, under the skin of your hips, and a little shock runs through your nerves. “That was good?”

“Yes,” you manage to rasp.

“We will do it again,” he says, then clearly thinks twice about his wording and tone. “I mean- would it be alright to do it again? Would it please you?”

You reach over, petting the strands of hair away from his face. “It would.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [I drew the boy](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/188261339124/hey-another-winning-in-the-instagram-giveaway-is)


	6. Incubus/Pegging and Rope Play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m exhausted, it’s past midnight, and I’m a little bit tipsy on the birthday wine so please just accept this as it is

He’s tied up like a present, red rope threading through his iris colored limbs as dark and inviting as blood. His wrists are trapped against the headboard, and he writhes, briefly, his chest shaking with his gasping breath even though you haven’t tried anything yet. He’s angry, you can tell even through the blindfold that he’s scowling, but he refuses to allow the safeword to escape his mouth from either from perverse curiosity or pure stubbornness. It’s… cute, you decide, running your fingers down your lacy lingerie just to feel the texture against your skin, before crawling up onto the bed and settling down over his waist.

“Are you ready for me?” You ask, making sure to rub up against his naked waist, eyeing the way his jaw sets to keep from mewling out. When he doesn’t answer, you pinch a bit of skin at the collar bone, though with not nearly enough force to hurt a being such as him. “I asked you a question.”

“Yes,” he grinds out as if he can’t even believe what he’s saying.

“You can leave if you want,” you say, opening the proverbial door a little wider in case he has any second thoughts about the tables turning so wildly.

“No.”

“Alright, then you need to listen when I speak to you,” your hand reaches out, gently grasping at his throat, though you don’t squeeze too hard yet. “Instead of giving me this attitude.”

When he doesn’t answer, you apply pressure to your grip around his throat, leaning over to give his chin a quick kiss. “You answer me when I talk to you, babe, or else you get punished.”

“Ye-yes ma’am,” he murmurs, his arms pulling at the restraints in an exercise in futility.

“That’s so much better,” you whisper, biting at the soft lavender flesh of his ear, “that wasn’t so bad, was it? Would you like a reward?”

You have to apply pressure to his neck again for him to answer, a soft, modest, “yes.”

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, please.”

“That’s so much better,” you praise, offer the grinding of your hips. “But I don’t think that you’ve earned anything yet, we’ve just begun, after all. Why don’t you convince me that you deserve it?” You can see movement in his throat, a strangled scream that dies before he sounds it.

After a minute of strangled silence, he mutters, “please.”

“That’s not very persuasive,” you murmur, leaning down to his chest and pressing your mouth against one of his pecs.

“I’ve been… I’ve been good.”

“You’ve been sassy,” you say, giving one of his legs a light smack. “I don’t think I should reward a sassy submissive.”

“Please,” he swallows thickly, “I promise that I… that I will be good for you.” It’s like he’s raising a white flag. You knew he would be a good submissive once he gave in to the temptation of your alluring promises, and the soft whispering and gentle nudging finally paid off, because he’s done with the facade of being a supreme being. He wants to be worshipped, oh, yes, but not the way he thought.

His dick is something to admire, that’s for sure. It’s thick and long, the epitome of what someone would what inside them, with ridges along the underlength that feels absolutely delightful when ridden. The tip is a weeping navy blue color, pulsing with arousal and need as you run your hand over the entire shaft, just to torture him. His lips pull back as he growls, his fangs glistening in the soft candlelight.

The strap-on is even more lengthy and thick than he; it’s why you chose it. False veins thread around the girth like a spider’s web, the black color complementing the blood-red lace that adorns your body like a continuous, intricate tattoo. As you slide down the bed, he parts his legs in a wordless invitation, his wrists turning white as he tries to wriggle out of the restraints. The lube is flavored with something that you might find bearable, and it’s cool against your fingers as you begin to massage the cleft of his ass.

Preparing him is easy, especially since he _wants_ it. Your fingers gently push past the rim of his hole, working on stretching him open for the strap-on. He doesn’t want to make any noises still, you can see the struggle in his body as he tries to stifle any cries building in his lungs. Your goal may not be reached today, because you think he needs some more time to be comfortable before he starts sobbing out your name. Still, you’re not above trying for the impossible; it is, after all, how you got him here, tied up nice and pretty for you. His breath intakes sharply, and that’s almost just about good enough as a real moan for you. 

“Do you feel ready?” You ask, not wanting to be the judge of something that might hurt him, and at the same time giving him one last out if he really doesn’t want to do it.

“Yes.”

“Yes, _what?”_ Still forgetting his manners, you see, teasing the puckered skin of his ass.

“Yes, please.”

That’s probably as good as he’s going to give, for now, so you offer him his promised reward. You try going in slow, combating the temptation to just fucking _rail_ him into the mattress, letting out a puff of breath at the restraint. His shoulders twist, a throaty gasp escaping his mouth from his chest, and if you didn’t know better, you’d think this is the first time he’s ever gotten dicked by anything, artificial or other. At his reaction, you try to only go halfway, leaving it in for just a minute to allow his body to grow used to the size, then pulling out.

“How’s that?”

“More, uhm, please.”

“Good boy.” He can’t see you smile through the blindfold, but you lean down to press a soft kiss against his thigh to show your approval, his body shuddering at your touch. You pop back up, bracing your hands on the mattress, push the strap-on in all the way to the base. And then you thrust. His entire body jerks, the groaning of your headboard hinting at how much force he’s using to struggle against his bindings.

You use a good, steady rhythm, his choking breaths barely any louder than a whisper. The sound of skin against skin brings a fresh rush of arousal through your body, your own breathing coming out in soft huffs from exertion. “Tell me,” you say, not enjoying the silence, “how you feel.”

“Nice,” he hisses.

“Not good enough,” you say, slowing your pace down significantly.

“Oh, fuck, baby, you’re doing so well.” It’s like a total switch, his body twisting as if he could barely keep from ripping the ropes away from his body.

Your mouth salivates at his voice, shivers running down your spine, sparks fizzling through your nerves. “Do you want to cum?”

“Yes, please, _please_ let me cum.”

You think about it, offering some more thrusts in the meantime. “I suppose I may show some mercy since this is your first night as a submissive. But don’t expect this much leeway again.”

His tail threads around one of your legs, the poor thing twitching with the craving for touch. “Thank you.”

It only takes a few more moments for him to cum, the head of his cock flooding over. You slow down, eventually pulling out and working the various straps around your waist free. It takes a moment of finagling, but you finally manage to free yourself, tossing the thing in a basket for later cleanup. Then you begin working on the knots around his wrists, the skin turning blue from his desperate struggles. His fingers reach up, pulling the blindfold from his eyes as you go about unwrapping the rest of the ropes from around his body. Once he is free, he cocks his head to the side and gives you an overly smug smile.

_“Your turn,_” he says, placing the blindfold over your eyes.


	7. Kelpie/Outdoor Sex

Twigs have long nested in his silky white hair, though it doesn’t seem matted or dirty in the slightest. Instead, it’s more like a crown of leaves and vines woven into the hair itself, framing his thin, pale face in the cold moonlight like a halo. His lips are a soft, pouty pink as they kiss your chin, then your collarbone, your lipstick smeared on the left half of his mouth and down the side of his face. Your spine arches, entirely out of your control, as he takes one of your nipples between his teeth and gently, carefully, offers up a playful bite, successfully pulling a whimpering moan from your throat.

He seems enthralled with every minute sound you make, so he repeats the action with your other breast, lashing his tongue out for an extra taste of your shuddering flesh. You might call his actions relentless, he would call them utterly necessary, but one thing is for sure; he knows what he is doing. A shuddering shock of pleasure runs through your body again, and your legs snap around his waist as though they have a mind of their own. The grinding sensation he offers in response makes you want to scream, and so you almost bite your tongue off, trying to keep quiet just to spite him.

And no, that won’t do, not for him. Now he kisses his way down your stomach, licking and biting every now and then in the hopes of catching you off guard, but you stay strong. The five o’clock shadow that peppers his cheeks and chin almost tickles your bare skin, and you entangle your fingers through his hair, staring up at the cloudy, moonless sky to distract yourself from the merciless actions of your partner. Yet he _demands_ your attention with his lips, pressing a fizzling hot kiss at the spot where your thigh and torso meet, his golden honey eyes watching the way your chest trembles with your shuddering breath as if trying to predict your next sobbing whine.

“Baby,” he says amid a chorus of crickets, “you taste sweeter than the berries that grow around the lake.”

A little zing of pleasure runs up your spine at his sugary words, and your lungs hitch in response.

His mouth twitches upwards in a smile that reveals a pair of gleaming fangs, eyes sparkling with the kind of energy as someone about to do something wild and whorish. “My sweet, beautiful, wonderful girl,” he says, voice like fine wine, “look at you, all soft and shivering and ready for me. I’m so hard, just imagining what it must feel like to slide into you like a simpering animal in heat.”

The grass against your back that you once thought of as a little too cold does nothing to cool the heat rising in your body. You untangle one of your hands from his head to clap it over your mouth. Tears begin to prick your eyes, though not from sadness, but from having too many emotions building through your brain for you to adequately deal with at the moment. And yet, it seems, he has no qualms about ruthlessness, dragging one of his fingers down to where your quivering slit trembles in the night air.

“What would happen if I did this?” He has the audacity to ask, bending forward to plant a gentle kiss against your clit.

Your fingers barely muffle the sound of a quaking sob as it bursts out of your chest like an uncaged animal.

“So sensitive for me, darling?” He laughs, almost sadistically, and does it again, pressing his tongue up against your clit for good measure. Then he really begins, licking this way and that, adding pressure just for the hell of it. Between kisses, he manages to breathe out several words of encouragement, gentle, wonderful reassurances that make your back tingle and toes curl.

Your legs wrap around his shoulders, and you allow one, subdued mewl to gasp out for him to hear. With his inhuman strength and stamina, you’re reasonably certain you won’t be able to crush him with your thighs, and besides, he doesn’t seem to mind the added pressure in the slightest, rather, he relishes his ability to make your writhe so. “P-please.”

He stops lavishing your clit with a loud _pop, _looking up to check if he heard you correctly. “Begging your pardon, love?”

“Please,” you whisper again, the back of your head pressing up against the dewy leaves.

His grin is untamable and downright devious. “You’ll have to be more specific, my sweet drop of sunlight. What could you want,” he kisses your clit again, “this, maybe? Or,” he presses his tongue into your weeping slit, “how about this?”

You’re not going to cry anymore, goddamnit. “Please, I want yo- _oh_,” you keen when he hits a particular spot inside, “I want you inside me, please.”

He stops, the smugness in his smile slowly draining away from his face until only an expression of softness remains. Those lithe, pale arms press up against the soft ground around your shoulders as he slides back up against your body, his forehead against yours. “That badly?”

Despite the aching already between your thighs, you manage to open them just a tad bit wider, so he gets an idea of how much you need him. Gently, tenderly, he readjusts your legs so that they’re wrapping around his waist, and then he slides forward. Not hard, no, he’s wary of his size in comparison to your trembling tightness, and so he’s sure to give you a moment or two so that you feel no pain. Still, even with his careful procedure, you feel a sharp sensation of pleasure blossoming through your core.

“Baby,” he whispers, “you feel magnificent.”

You whimper.

He thrusts once, his hips already shaking with the effort not to lose control, and then again. All intentions of taking it slowly fall apart to shambles, his deep, throaty moan echoing through your body like a wounded animal. A frenzy overtakes him, first, and then you, succumbing to the heat of the moment, and the two of you kiss hard enough for your teeth to clack against his.

“I,” kiss, “love,” kiss, “you,” he presses his mouth against your ear, nibbling at the fleshy part of your lobe.

You think your eyes might be rolling to the back of your head as the tightness in your core reaches its height, and with him taking a moment to touch your clit with his thumb, you tip over the edge, crying out as if in anguish, almost too far gone to even register the pleasure spasming in your system. Your arms wrap around his neck, and you hold him closer as he rides you out, his own orgasm swinging through his body, his thrusts becoming erratic as he cums.

He kisses you all over, your eyelids, your forehead, your mouth, nose, and chin, his lips swollen from biting it down during intercourse. “I love you,” he repeats, nuzzling into your neck.

“I love you, too,” you murmur, kissing the side of his chin.


	8. Fishman/Reader Standoff

There is a strange, atmospheric ambiance to the room, moonlight just barely piercing through the water barely held back by the windows’ glass. Sometimes inside of you wants to be outside of the safe haven of air, swimming among the reefs and looking at the brightly colored fishes. Still, you stare stubbornly at your reflection in the glass, staying where you are in the hopes that he will at least show you a shred of mercy.

Even though there’s a chill to the damp, watery air, just beneath your skin, you’re _smoldering_ with heat, sweat misting onto your forehead as you try to steady yourself on the circular bed. Getting on your hands and knees is a seemingly simple enough task, but doing so in the presence of another, while bare as the day you were born? It’s taking all of your self-control not to turn yourself around and make him take your place, but he has a complex about these things. You have to be patient.

The mattress dips behind you with the weight of someone else, and you feel a finger slowly trace the contours of your bare back. Shivers run down your spine, nerves following the movement with more focus that your consciousness could muster. Already, you’re ready to whine and keen and beg for him to take you, but you restrain yourself with the practice leading up to now. When he kisses your shoulder blade, you almost buck, but grit your teeth and try to focus on the painting hanging up above his bed’s headboard.

Slowly, his fingertip moves down the curve of your ass, tracing tiny, incoherent designs onto your quivering skin. You know he’s infuriatingly slow on purpose, though his own body betrays him when he pushes at your folds and sees how wet you are. Everything inside of your core wants you to push up against him and grind, but that would ruin the fun of this little contest, wouldn’t it?

He kisses every single bump on your spine, a finger slowly teasing the edge of your pussy when he’s low enough. Trying to ignore him, you focus on your breathing, eying the way the textures of the flow and glimmer in the dark light, following the pattern of curves and hardness as he lowers himself closer, his breath hot and welcome to your embarrassingly needy skin. His hands massage the cheeks of your ass, fingers digging in almost painfully as he kneads and tugs in a manner that can only be described as possessive, a purring hum in his throat.

Next, almost in the act of claiming, he bites you, right in the thickest point, furthest away from the bone. He doesn’t do it hard, though; he doesn’t try to pierce the skin, only does it enough so that you will feel a dull bruise in the morning. Almost in an apology, though, he kisses and licks the spot, his lips like a cool, balmy relief. Then, he moves further down, nipping at your skin with nowhere near the same force as used before, yet tingles and fizzles through your insides just the same.

There’s a physical crescendo when he finally arrives at your seeping, wet pussy, his breathing changing, his body almost… trembling, you realize, in no small amount of smugness. When he kisses you, though, it’s so sudden and quick and _heated_ with lust that you let in a soft gasp. You feel his lips curve up into a smile, teeth brushing dangerously close to your most tender flesh, but he says nothing. Only lets his tongue drag from the end of your pussy to the very edge of your ass, following that invisible line of your body’s center.

Confident he can’t see the movement of your head when he’s buried his face into your slit, you roll your head around, stretching your neck out in a gesture of catharsis. God, you’d never actually admit it, but his tongue is skilled and deft, and he knows how to use it to the best of his ability. He flattens and curves it, lapping slowly around your folds, gripping your thighs for better leverage, his nose digging up close to your clit as he sucks on a flap of skin almost roughly.

There is a heat building up in your core, one sparked by rage, thus roaring far brighter and hotter than one made by simple attraction. The competitive side of you tries so desperately to ignore the desire setting your body aflame, but he isn’t the kind of person who is so easily dismissed. He delves in deeper, tongue and fingers pulling and stretching, finding your clit with such ease that you almost _squeal,_ a heavy, loaded breath bursting out from your mouth in surprise.

You can feel the smugness in how he sloppily kisses and sucks at that bud between your folds, every singer fiber of his being working their best to make you scream his name like a goddamn whore. He has the skills of one, you think, as he shows you no mercy by taking your clit into his mouth, with the viciousness of a slighted bastard. Inwardly, you wish you could turn around to look at him, knowing his face is dripping with your juices.

After a moment to steady yourself, you find your voice, shifting the rules of the game, “do I taste good?”

It was barely more than a whisper, but he hears it, his breath hitching at the ability to talk, and a moment of silence as he chooses his words carefully. “You taste like a gift from the gods,” he almost snarls with eagerness, clutching your ass tighter, “does my tongue please you? Does this sinner’s body fill you with pleasure? Are you throbbing with need for me?”

_Yes, yes, yes,_ you don’t say, still facing forward. “I don’t know,” you say instead, “are you even trying?”

You can feel the thrill of your nonchalance go through him, and his own competitive nature takes hold as his grip tightens. “Oh,” his voice is shaking with all the filthy things he plans on doing to you, “I’ll show you ‘trying.”’


	9. Naga/Semi public oral sex

You don’t know why you find the upper levels of the library so enticing. Once the archives are closed, no one very much cares to venture up to the near-attic, the scent of carefully dusted wood calming after a day of stressing over whatever class you feel like you’re falling behind in. Up here in the rafters, surrounded by ancient scripture and stories of lands almost forgotten, you can slip out of your mind and focus solely on what you must.

  
Okay, well, scratch that, maybe you do know why you like it up here. Thunder roars in the near distance, shockwaves of sound vibrating against the windows and stone of the walls. It doesn’t take too much of a temperature shift outside to suck out all the heat through the thin sheet of glass separating you from the raging storm, and by the way a frigid nose pokes beneath your skirt, someone doesn’t find the cold as enticing as you.

  
With a steady hand, you turn the page of your textbook, eyes scanning the page as a scaled tail wraps around your ankle. Tapping your pen against your notebook, you practically glare at the illustration, trying to ignore the imploring fingers slipping beneath your underwear. All you offer in response is a quick shift of your hips to ease his struggle, his breath almost cool against the wetness between your thighs.

  
“Malak,” you half-whisper, tangling your fingers in his white hair. “You said you would help me study.”

  
“I’m cold, baby,” he hums in response, hiking up your skirt further up to your waist. Teeth graze against your inner thigh, nothing more than a playful nip, but it melts your insides down to a boiling point. “Let me warm up first.”

  
Swallowing thickly, you only turn back to your schoolwork, trying to angle yourself on the chair in a way that lets you spread your legs as far as necessary. Focus, focus, focus, your mind chants as his tongue slowly teases the skin around your lips. Intention when casting runes is just as important as the markings themselves; to fully produce their desired effect, one must-

  
A burst of pleasure runs up the length of your spine; you have to catch yourself before you let out a sobbing whimper. Malak’s tongue has graced your clit with its presence, his bright blue eyes looking up from under the table with a sly triumph. Clamping your mouth shut, you turn back to your work, trying to focus on making a flashcard with the proper vocab words as he spreads the skin of your pussy out.

  
Trying to keep your voice steady, you say, “what are the three virtues one must exhibit while casting runes?”

  
“Clarity,” he kisses your slit, “focus,” another kiss, “and aplomb.”

  
“Good,” you manage to get yourself under control, taking a sip out of your thermos, “glad to see you’re keeping up.”

  
He makes a purring noise, flattening his tongue and licking from top to bottom, little sparks of thrill running through your core. Then, just to be infuriating, you think, he lets out a small whimpering noise that sets your entire being on edge. Still, there’s no one around to hear his little show of subjugation, so you decide to let it slide.

Up, down, up, down, a smile on his face as you wrap a leg around his cool back.  
Keeping your voice under control, you look over your notes. “What is considered the rune for this modern age?”

He waits for a beat, flicking his tongue against your opening, then says, “Synthetic Moderna.”  
You shudder as he delves back down, but you have to nod your head. “Ri-right. What about- what about the Acadian Revival?”

“A period in the nineteenth century revolving around the idea that older magicks were somehow better than modern- do I have that right?” Without waiting for your answer, his mouth closes on the upper part of your pussy, slowly pushing his tongue between your folds, sliding it back and forth against your clit.

You suck in your breath. “Y-yeah, that’s it exactly.” Trying to convince your quivering core that everything is alright and you don’t have to pay attention to what’s happening between your legs, you turn the page, eyes dancing over the chapter for more important information. “And what put the Acadian magic back into obscurity?”

  
You think you can feel his eyes rolling, but you’re so focused on the letters in your book that you don’t look. “Older magic was useful for the older world. New technologies mean new uses that don’t coincide with those ancient concepts.”

  
“Yes, that’s- that’s correct.” You don’t understand how he can be so very casual about everything while his tongue slowly probes your entrance, nor could you ever fathom why he might not insist you pay his own body any mind. Still, you suppose that you’re grateful for the release.

  
“Have I earned my prize yet?” He asks, batting his pale, thick eyelashes at you.

  
“Not yet,” your chest is tight, your core even hotter. “We need to get through this unit first.”

  
“Mmph,” he complains against your pussy, taking one of your lips and nipping gently with his fangs.

  
You don’t want to ask him for any more information, mostly because his face feels awfully nice against your throbbing core, but you also don’t want him to flunk out, no matter how much he seems to know his stuff, he has a nasty habit of not showing up to exams. “Who is an influential figure that began the development of Synthetic Moderna?”

  
He shivers against your body, tail wrapping up your shin and closing in on your knee. “Alphonsa Rodrigez.”

  
For being at the mercy of someone hellbent on making you cum, you think you’re doing an outstanding job at ignoring him… until his fingers become involved. Your vision blurs despite your desperate attempts to focus on anything and everything but him. Clearing your throat, you continue, “and what exact discovery did Doctor Rodrigez discover?”

  
He moans into your pussy, his throat rumbling low and sweet. Now that his fingers are involved, the stroking of your clit doesn’t cease when he looks back up at your face, “isn’t she the one who came up with the three virtues?”

  
You inhale sharply as he presses his thumb into your slit, but say, “no, she wasn’t the one to finalized the three virtues into mainstream practices… it has to do with the idea of clarity, though.”

  
“Oh,” he says, realization in his eyes as he offers a kiss to your thigh, “right, wasn’t she involved in the development of neural observation when it came to the actual casting?”

  
“Ye-Es!” Your voice lilts and almost becomes a whine as Malak, the fucking bastard, closes his mouth around your clit and sucks just as you open your mouth. You clap your hands over your mouth, face red, hoping desperately that no one heard. Judging by the lusty smile on his face, he knows what he did, and you feel the urge to smack him upside the head. ” Malak!”

  
“Careful, baby,” he says, infuriatingly quiet, “someone might hear you.”

  
As though the universe heard his words and decided that it would be super funny to turn against you in the worst way imaginable, you hear footsteps. Sucking in air, you’re quick to fix your posture, wrapping your legs around Malak’s neck in the hopes of keeping him still. Despite the hazy layer of sweat on your temple, you think, you hope that you don’t look like… well, like someone is mouth fucking you beneath the table.

  
“Are you alright?” A head pokes out from the back, eyebrows raised. A grad student you recognize, he’s one of the TA’s in your least favorite class this semester, though you’d never tell him that.

  
Silently, you thank every god who might have brought the desk you’re sitting at because it’s one of the older fashioned ones, the kind that closes off and hides whatever might be underneath from passersby. Briefly, you wonder if the person who first made them had this exact reason behind it. Malak’s tongue doesn’t give you an ounce of reprieve, working almost harder to flush your face, hoping with all the power in his fingers that you might squeal with pleasure.

  
But you’re stronger than that, more determined than he, so you offer up a casual smile and a noncommittal shrug. “Sorry, Martin, I saw a spider. You know how I am with those.”

  
“Ri-ight,” he says, drawing out the center syllable for longer than you would like. Maybe he’s just mocking you for the phobia? “Of course, sorry for interrupting.”

  
“Oh, I’m just studying-”

  
“Of course, goodbye.” And just like that, his head ducks back between the books, gone and embarrassed for reasons you don’t want to think about. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a tail poking out from where the wooden board almost meets the floor, thrashing about like in some kind of distress. Or some sort of perverse pleasure.

  
You don’t have time to feel shameful because Malak is attacking your body with a much more vicious gusto than you had thought him capable of… okay, well, maybe not, but you did think he would at least wait until the study session was over. Steadily, with so little mercy, he sucks on your clit directly; you have to bite down on your hand to keep from crying out.

  
Even if you offer up a meager question, you know that he’s so focused on your pleasure that he couldn’t be bothered to answer. You’re almost afraid that you might be squeezing his head too tightly, but he doesn’t seem bothered in the least, arm snaking around one of your legs to shift and position however he needs. Out away, then back closer when a chill of coldness threatens his delicate skin.

  
He’s sucking now, sucking on your clit, except it’s not like those quick, kissing motions; it’s full-on, and your vision tangles with a web of black. Everything in your core is tight, hot, yet Malak is cool enough to tie your body down to the mortal plane, even if he’s relentlessly licking like his life depends on your orgasm.

And there, you can feel it coiling in your stomach. You have to bite down on your sleeve lest you start whining like a pup. With your other hand, though, you rake your fingers through his hair.

  
Now he’s looking at you, crystalline eyes filled to the brim with smug satisfaction. Still, his tongue moves against your lower regions with the skill of a well-seasoned whore, a kind of his own desperation on his face. Almost like his very being depends on your pleasure. He gently pushes a finger into your pussy, curving it slightly to hit that one specific spot, then slowly begins to massage your inner walls, and you are over.

  
You can feel the beginning of the orgasm creep up inside your core, small tendrils of pleasure reaching out through your nerves. The steady building turns into waves, though, morphing from a modest sort of feeling to something large, bright, and overshadowing everything else. Something slick and hot rushes through your pussy, trickling out and into Malak’s eager and waiting mouth.

  
The sounds he makes while drinking your cum are obscene, even though he tries to keep quiet, just as you asked. But he doesn’t slow down and instead lets you ride out your orgasm on his face, tongue still licking and mouth continuously kissing despite your body’s slow decline off that high. Everything in your body seems to shut off, muscles relaxing as the final rolls of pleasure ebb away, until you’re barely nothing more than a shivering, boneless mass on the chair.

  
He crawls up your body then, every movement with purpose and vigor. He kisses your stomach, a shiver pulsing out from it, then up your sweater, pausing at your collarbone, then goes to your neck. You wrap your arms around his torso and your legs around his waist, snuggling up against his solid, large body to ground yourself.

  
“Babe?” He asks.

  
“Yeah?”

  
“What leap of advancement does Synthetic Moderna have over its many predecessors?”

  
“I’m going to kill you.”

  
“Incorrect! That's a penalty." 


	10. Fae/Femdom and Dry Humping

The lights of the street lamps bleed through the doors of your car, illuminating him with a dull neon glow. His hands grip your waist, his breath coming out in hot, heavy puffs, eyes seeming bright orange in the flickering fluorescent sign. As you settle over his hips, you can feel a tent in his pants, hard, thick, desperate for release.

There’s a dull, distant bass that somehow sounds through the metal and the rest of the block, a reminder that you’re only a few impossible yards from a club. Your supernatural partner looks absolutely ruined beneath you, lips pink and wet with spit, his eyes almost entirely black and shockingly lucid.

His hands are twisted in a makeshift tie, the seatbelt wrapped around his wrists a few times and locked. Even if you saw fit to release him, there’s no way you could manage to untangle his limbs in a timely manner; you made sure to lock him in well and good should you need a quick escape for… business purposes. But for now, you suppose you can have a little fun with him.

With your back against the steering wheel, you spread your legs around to tightly straddle his hips, watching his face as soon as you settle over the bulge. His face doesn’t disappoint, his eyes widening, his mouth opening to a soft _oh,_ back arching as far as he can make it off the flattened seat.

You start with kisses, heated, open-mouthed kisses where you’re quick to dominate his mouth with your tongue. He whimpers, and he keens, pelvis thrusting into yours, eyes closed as he allows you to violet his lips with such easy submission you wonder why you’ve never tried fucking him before. After all, you’ve seen him, hanging around the club with his silk shirts and expensively cut pants, but you’ve never offered up a passing thought until-

Just to be a bitch, you bite down on his lower lip, determined to make sure he leaves this chance meeting looking like he got in a tussle with a fully-fledged werewolf. As he moans his approval, you shift, trying to get yourself more comfortable in the suddenly stuffy interior. Say what you want about car sex; it can be challenging to find comfortable positions for both parties, especially if it’s an unfamiliar environment.

Moving your mouth to his neck, you bite down, trying to take advantage of the sensitive skin that will easily blossom with the most decadent of bruises tomorrow morning. Placing a knee up on the center cupholder, you snake your hand down to where his cock is steadily fighting to be free of its confines, a testament to his arousal and desire for you to fuck him into oblivion.

“You seem eager,” you whisper, wishing you had the foresight to at least turn the radio up. Something about the steady woosh of warm air coming from the heaters puts you on edge.

“All the better to fuck you with, my dear.” His voice is anything but steady as you _accidently_ squeeze his rod just a tad too hard.

“I think you have a misconception of who will be fucking who,” you murmur, a smile on your face, opening your mouth and biting down on the skin of his shoulder.

He lets out an approving moan, arms struggling against the car seat strap. His face seems to be turning bright red, but nothing in his words or tone suggests that you should be stopping your onslaught anytime soon. Calmly, you begin to unbutton his shirt, going down the damn things one by one, until you finally have his chest exposed enough for you to gently violate.

Without a shred of mercy, you go for his left nipple, squeezing the rose-colored dusty bud between your fingers. He keens and he moans while you begin to pinch and roll his right one as well, body wriggling and jerking so very beautifully between your legs. Wishing you could be even less impassioned than you are, you watch him slowly become undone, slick wetness still developing between your thighs.

Your own needs beckon you to grind, but you still have it in you to torture this soft bitch of a fae before you tend to yourself. Slowly, in a facade of tenderness, you kiss him again, right on the mouth as you slowly rub his clothed cock in your hands, reveling in the way he gasps as you experiment with different motions. Up, down, squeeze gently, maybe a little rougher, press and pull, watching his face as he slowly becomes undone.

“Please,” he gasps, one of the few words he’s said to you all night.

“Please, what?” You ask, wishing you knew how to be so much more crueler to him than you already are.

“I want to cum,” he whispers, as though he is well aware of how absurd the request is.

You hum, as though in thought, even though your mind is already made up. With the voice of a person who might be convinced, you ask, “do you deserve to cum?”

The hesitation is all you need to latch onto, your fingers wrapping around his throat, your mouth curved in a sadistic grin. “All you’ve done is whine and moan beneath me; what have you done to actually deserve a release?”

He lets out a raspy breath, blue eyes haunting. Opening his mouth, he tries to make out the words that plead you to his case, that offer up the sun and the stars if you’d only allow him to relieve his tension, but you glare down at him with an impassive stare.

“I didn’t hear any reason for you to cum. Can you please tell me?”

“I-” he chokes as you rub his crotch, “I’ve been so good to you, all tied up like a pretty present. Will you please let me cum?”

“Hm,” you murmur, thinking over his response, “but can I reward you for doing what you’re told? For cooperating like the bitch boy that you are?”

He gasps, those sweet eyes watering, his struggling against his straps almost sweet. “I’ve obeyed you, I haven’t cummed, or moved?”

“I’ll think about it,” you say, pretending to not care. With some level of violence, you cup his chin in your hand, squeezing, admiring the way his mouth puckers when he wants something. He’s been a decent pet, hasn’t he? You might actually allow him the satisfaction of cumming, though you don’t plan on stripping him from the rest of his clothes.

Still, you put up the facade of careful thought, mindlessly palming his crotch. Even through the material, you know that he would fit inside you so very sweetly, you know that letting him inside is a reward that he hasn’t yet deserved, even if you are allowing him this single instance of release. Slowly, you bend over him, hovering your lips just inches away from his ear, and whisper, “you’re allowed to cum.”

He chokes, you can feel his tongue against your index finger, so you push it in further. Even with the hazy fluorescent light, you can see the threads of his sanity unwinding, his pelvis thrusting up to grind against your thigh. You don’t say anything as he becomes undone, only watch, your own arousal heating up your womb and making you wish you had an extra hand to touch yourself with.

The only signs he has cummed are the hot, sporadic thrusts from his waist, dark splotches growing from the sperm coating the underside of his pants. His face becomes red, his breath coming out in heavy, ugly _puffs,_ his moaning and begging so sweet in your ears you might have had your own release if your guard had been any lower.

He writhes and he moans, face twisting with the bitter sense of being bested by someone he might consider to be of lower status. You love the way he tries to rationalize his behavior, such a sweet, stupid little fae. The way he seems to bend towards your supposedly inferior human body.

When all is said and done, the shame and humiliation give his mouth such a sweet, pathetic little quiver, anyways. You suppose that you might allow him back in your presence should he come seeming you again.


	11. Vampire/Rimming

When you enter the duke’s chambers, you find him, slouched over on the couch. His lips are puckered out in a pout, arms crossed over his chest, and an open book over his eyes like he can’t stand to deal with the concept of vision. Letting out an angry puff of breath, you place your hands on your hips and approach.

“Sire,” you say, trying to keep your voice calm, “your meeting is only an hour away.”

He says nothing, but you’ve already expected that, heading over to the absolutely wastefully large closet, running your fingers over the near hundreds of different options that you could put him in. After running through a list of who you know if going to be in the meeting, cross-referencing that with the preference of modesty, formality, and even attraction, you collect a specific outfit.

With your arms filled with clothing, you walk back to the couch where your decadent charge hasn’t moved since you entered. With little ceremony and as much force as you can muster, you throw the clothing onto him, waiting while he decides whether or not to address your presence.

Finally, he pulls the makeshift mask off his face, mouth still pouting as he glares. “I don’t want to go.”

“You have to go,” you say, crossing your arms, so he knows that you mean it. “Get up; you need to get dressed.”

He lets out a loud, gratuitous sigh, sinking further down to the point where he was almost on the ground. “No one ever cares about what I want, it’s always _duke this,_ and _duke that,_ no one ever asks _how is the duke?”_

You roll your eyes to almost every single word, confident that one day your irises might end up stuck to the underside of your skull. “Get off the floor, sire; I brought you clothes.”

He picks a blouse off from his lap and makes a face filled with disgust, eyes squinting at the material then back at you. “It’s like you don’t even know me.”

“This isn’t about you,” everything about him makes your ears bleed, “this is about pleasing the most amount of people in that room, you royal fucking dumbass.”

“I wonder why I haven’t fired you for such blatant disrespect,” he laments, rolling over and finally standing.

“I’d like to see literally anyone else deal with you for five minutes without immediately quitting,” you snap, grabbing him by the shirt and half dragging him over to the vanity. “Take off the loungewear-”

“Oh my,” he says, interrupting you mid-sentence, “if I had known you felt this way, I would have done so much sooner.”

“-So you can get dressed into something more formal,” you finish, feeling the urge to smack him.

Making sure that you’re _watching,_ damn him, he reaches those slim fingers up to the silky tie holding the front of his shirt in place. Then he pulls, ever so slowly, gradually giving you a most remarkable view of his collarbone and chest, eyes dark, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

His skin is milky white and glorious, not a single scar or blemish on any part of his body that you’ve seen… and you’ve seen a _lot._ Trying to keep your cool, you flap out the blouse you picked out, handing it out in his direction, but of course, he has to continue being infuriating even when he knows that you’re right. Instead of accepting the shirt, ruby eyes locked onto yours, he goes down to his pants, unbuckling the belt.

Oh, the bastard knows what he’s doing; with every gesture, movement, and step, his ridiculous need to be at the very center of your sexual attention would make him seem like a fool… if it didn’t work. Because as you’re giving him the very annoyed look that he _loves,_ you can feel heated blood rise into your cheeks and a spark of arousal in your core, but you will _not_ give him the satisfaction of buckling so soon.

Good _lord,_ he’s wearing something lacy and dark instead of one’s usual underthings, which always means that he has long intended to grace your eyes with his nakedness. His legs are long and lean, but also _strong,_ the curve of his ass so very tempting as he turns around, placing a knee on the couch as he bends his waist forward.

“I need you to tighten my corset.”

It’s such a basic, essentially simple request, one that wouldn’t necessarily be such a loaded statement... except this is _your lord_, and when he says it, there’s a calm expectation tied to the sentence. _Tighten my corset._ Trying to keep control of yourself, you step forward, placing the extra clothing on the armrest of the cough. As you wrap your fingers around the drawstrings, you depend on his own stance to keep your balance.

As you pull, he _moans,_ so softly you almost miss it. Your nerves are on fire, your breath quickening, unsure of how you’re going to survive the rest of the night when he’s so set on having you _ruin_ him like he’s some common whore. So hot you might burst into a sweat, you turn your eyes over to the clock, mentally counting the seconds it might take for you to get him to the meeting room in the center of the castle.

Only a few minutes, you’ve long since clocked it when he begged you over and over for just _a few more moments, please,_ so you’re well aware of the last possible second you can make him leave to arrive in the breath of time. Since you’ve paused, he’s turned around, clearly aware of what you’re mentally debating, mouth in an even wider smile, baring his pointed fangs.

“I’ll run if I have to,” he says in a sultry promise, not even needing to mention _why._

You hiss through your teeth, silently weighing the pros with the cons, then quietly, with great difficulty, you ask, “you will get to the meeting on time and not utter a word of complaint for the rest of the day?”

His hips thrust up into your pelvis, almost in an accident, his voice barely restrained as he reassures, “not a single negative thing will be uttered from me-” you hear a jerking gasp of pleasure escape his mouth as your fingers wander down the front of his waist.

“I will hold you to it,” you snarl, cupping his crotch almost violently, rubbing the steadily growing erection through the lacy garment. Slowly, you work two fingers up and down the bulging length, refusing to let it out as punishment for his impromptu begging.

Taking a minute to admire the sculpture that is his back, you run your thumbs down the path of his spine, making sure to dig your nails down into the skin, just a little bit, to see the skin redden and pucker up. For someone without a single blemish, his skin so easily puckers up and bruises at the slightest upset, you’ve long learned to only brutalize the flesh on his lower, more covered parts.

There is a simple thong string that’s so easy to push away as you practically attack his body with kisses and nips. You bite down on the left part of his ass, with the very intent on drawing that sweet vampiric blood, but his skin doesn’t break so easily. Almost in an apology, you lick at the already swollen area without the same kind of genuine meaning behind the action.

The sounds he makes are obscenely delightful to your ears, the keening, the begging, the _moaning._ He’s a slut when he wants to be; even if he puts up some strange facade of control, he’s always desperate to crack underneath your fingers and tongue. So you go lower, and lower, until your fingers and mouth are right in the area that you’ve absolutely wrecked with a false cock so many times before.

Your tongue and fingers work to desecrate him in just the ways he likes, prodding, lapping, _biting_ the surrounding skin of his hole until he’s begging you, _begging you_ to please, please let him release. You suppose that slowly rubbing his crotch probably isn’t helping him be as coherent as he shockingly is when it comes to politics, his requests boiled down to simpering whimpers, but you don’t give your permission, not yet.

After glancing at the clock, you notice that you have about four more minutes to give him absolute hell, and for his outright brattiness, you decide to let him have it. You lick, you suck, and you nip until he’s barely anything more than a frothing prostitute, sobbing, screaming, _begging_ for you to show him some ounce of goddamn mercy.

You can feel his sperm spill and spurt out of his lacy lingerie, the thick, sticky liquid meshing between your fingers as you grasp and relieve his throbbing dick.

With a settling breath, you stare at hiss thoroughly touched being, his mouth bright with alive and desperation. Trying to keep yourself together, you take a step back, checking yourself to make sure there’s no evidence of your sin. After breathing carefully, you pick up the outfit you have previously picked out.

“Go clean yourself. Meeting’s in ten minutes.”

**Author's Note:**

> As long as October is in full swing, so is Kinktober! If you want to submit a prompt, please do so on my [my tumblr!](https://cozycryptidcorner.tumblr.com/post/188093375749/who-is-up-for-bad-ideas-with-coco-kinktober)


End file.
